


fireplace

by bee_bro



Series: tma h/c week, babes [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Jon in Martin's Clothes which is important, M/M, Merfolk AU, Merman Jonathan "Jon" Sims, One Shot, TMAHCweek, The Magnus Archives Hurt/Comfort Week, Treating injuries, mention of martin's mother's stellar parenting..., rated T for swearing and minor blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:59:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26126881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bee_bro/pseuds/bee_bro
Summary: warmer by the fireplace, warmer next to you....Martin has two boring months to spend at Uncle Peter's remote fishing cabin, but on his first week there, he stumbles upon a man loudly arguing. With the waves.Alright then.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: tma h/c week, babes [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1895815
Comments: 36
Kudos: 295





	fireplace

**Author's Note:**

> cw: mentions of shallow non-self-inflicted cuts over one's palms, not overly graphic and received before the story takes place. take care!

He is twenty-one and somehow still facing the concept of getting ‘sent away for the summer.’ The excuse his mother gives Martin is the considerable age of his uncle, and, if Martin could help out the old man it’d be great and noble, and yeah yeah yeah: Martin knows she just doesn’t want to see him.

He dreams of renting another apartment if she wants him out of her hair so bad, but the city is no option for budgetary living. It’s the nice thing to do, give her a two-month’s breathing space, he supposes, so he clamps his mouth shut, packs two bags (one with clothes, the other with books) and sits down for the eight-hour ride.

Martin hasn’t seen uncle Peter since he was six, and the man looks exactly how Martin remembers him. That’s the thing, even though his hair’s all white and he sure isn’t young, Martin cannot fathom how he can be ‘helpful’ to Peter. The man won’t let him assist with anything outside of kitchen duty. Not with dragging his fisherman’s boat, not with pulling his fishing nets up. And, just like Martin remembers, the man will be talkative for two hours, go on a rant about water pollution and his fishnets getting messed up, and then will ghost Martin for the rest of the day.

So now he has two months to just live in the middle of cold nowhere.

In those hours of Peter going off on a boat or locking himself in a room, Martin finds himself wandering the expansive yet very non-summer-like shore. This beach is pebbled, cold, and Martin huddles deep into a fisherman’s coat he stole from the attic.

It’s frankly miserable in a very concise and poetic way, even beautiful. The coast is consistently gray, the wind is biting, it doesn’t feel like summer but it all comes together in such a pleasant bundle of unity that Martin can’t help but find himself enjoying it.

That is, until some guy further down the beach ruins it because he’s wearing _shorts._

Peter must be rubbing off on him because honestly, Martin is not thrilled about having company.

The guy’s standing a good hundred meters away, having been obscured by a rock ledge before, facing the ocean and… uh. Martin stops to stare: that’s right, shouting at it.

_I mean… okay,_ Martin thinks, because yeah, it gets like that sometimes, he’s had his moments. The guy looks short, he’s standing like he’s midway to bolting, pointing a venomous finger at the waves. Martin can’t hear a thing over the crash of the ocean but it looks intense.

Honestly, the politest thing to do is just turn around and leave, Martin reasons, because what’s more embarrassing than catching a stranger ogling your mental breakdown on a windy gray morning when you’re venting at the waves while being clearly _not_ dressed for the weather.

He’s about to turn around when the guy starts throwing the bigger pebbles from the ground at the ocean, fast and sharp, more shouting. Damn. Martin’s gonna get out of here more for his own safety and not for the guy’s peace of mind, at this point. And he would’ve if right as he began to step back, the guy wouldn't have stopped throwing rocks to wipe his palm on the side of his pastel green shorts. It leaves blood. Martin stops dead in his tracks once more caught on the hook of whatever is going on.

The guy chooses that exact moment to look over.

Then back to the ocean, back at Martin, to the ocean, Martin, they stand like that, staring at each other. Martin meekly lifts a hand to wave.

The guy lifts a hand back and golly it’s all _red._

Martin can’t help beginning to walk, the memory of patching dogs up at an understaffed volunteer clinic leaving little choice but to immediately rush to assistance. Getting closer to the guy who stays firmly in place, he can see the man’s soaked through and through, hair, clothes, he must be freezing. His palms are bleeding and so are his knees, why the hell is he wearing shorts and a t-shirt out in weather like this.

There’s many conversation openers that would sound completely insane in this context and Martin settles on a good, safe, “Hey do you need help?”

The guy shakes his head immediately, then glances back to stare at the waves. He’s shorter than Martin, there’s seaweed in his dark, soppy hair. He looks back up, his eyes are rather pretty- and there’s something a bit off about them but first and foremost they’re skeptical. And yet, the guy suddenly nods: reconsidered.

God this is weird, “Oh, so… yes? I, um, can I see your palms?” Why did he ever approach why did he approach?

The man throws another stare at the water before presenting Martin his palms: they’re cut up. Martin accepts them to look closer and notices the minor shaking- the hands are cold and clammy, the guy is freezing. Most cuts look shallow, no need for stitches, but Martin is honestly considering the possibility of fingers beginning to fall off with how cold they are. What is he doing what is he doing.

“You’re freezing,” He lets go of the guy’s hands and begins taking his heavy coat off, “I’m Martin by the way, do you live nearby?” He needs to figure out how to make sure this man doesn’t turn into an icepick between the beach and the closest heated apartment.

“I… don’t.” the man takes the jacket and just holds it. “Jon, I suppose.”

“You’re going to freeze, put it on,” Martin urges him, watching the smears of dark left by Jon’s hands, “Can I help you get to a hospital?”

“No hospital.” His eyes are suddenly sharp and Martin still can’t place what’s wrong.

Ok. No hospital.

“Great, um," crap he can't just leave the guy to die from hypothermia, "I have a, I, I live nearby and we have some medical supplies…”

Jon, looking tiny in Peter’s thick coat but instantly more comfortable, nods quickly.

Martin knows Peter’s out fishing for the next ten hours for _sure._ So he won’t have to explain why there is a stranger currently huddling in their kitchen.

In the walk back to Peter’s cabin of sorts Martin’s learned that Jon was only _primarily_ untalkative and could be easily coaxed into telling Martin all about a rare breed of fish only particular to this coast, that Jon was from ‘around here’ but didn’t specify beyond that, that Jon had cut up his hands climbing out of the water and fighting the rockface, and that he wasn’t going to elaborate _why._

Upon arrival home, Martin had found some clothes for Jon, put him in front of the fireplace, made him tea, and began to methodically clean his palms and one knee. He’d been right, most cuts were shallow but had gone unattended long enough to accumulate blood. He dabbed at them with antiseptic, listening to Jon occasionally pause in his speech about tide patterns to hiss in pain.

“Sorry, sorry,” he’d apologize and keep cleaning, and Jon would shake his head, hair still sending small droplets flying, and would assure Martin with wonder in his eyes that it was okay.

“Do you take every stranger from the beach to your house?”

“Of course not, but I assume the circumstances of our meeting don’t paint that statement in a good light, huh?” Martin moved onto the second hand, “Just, you were hurt and underdressed… Sometimes you just need a helping hand, you know?”

He glanced up at Jon who was staring at him with almost unsettling intensity, like he was trying to understand something fundamental at Martin’s core.

“There’s bad things in the oceans…” Jon flicked his gaze away to the fire, “Cold, scary things. Up here is better, though. Up here is warm and good and there’s a helping hand.”

Martin took a moment to think about the way he phrased ‘up here’ and assumed it related to Peter’s cabin standing some ways up a hill, near a steep drop to the ocean. It’s not like it didn’t make sense.

He went back to cleaning the palm, “I’m glad you feel better, it’d be terrible if you got sick because of the cold,” he switched to a new cotton ball, “The wind here is pretty harsh, my uncle warns me against even approaching the water’s edge in case I get blown over and swept under.”

“Good advice,” _(hiss)_ “What’s an uncle?”

Martin feels his eyebrows raise a tad bit but ignores it, “My mother’s brother. His name is Peter, this is his house,” he’s done with this hand too and glances up at Jon, wondering how good a move it is to disclose more information, “I hope you’re not planning to murder us in our sleep, by the way, I’d really appreciate that.”

“You saved my life,” Jon shrugs as if the comment carries no weight, “I’m in debt.”

“It was a few cuts and a jacket,” Martin can feel his face go red with the sentimentality, “That’s a tad bit dramatic, no?”

Jon examines his now free hands, leaving Martin’s own palm feeling cold at the loss of contact, “You approached right in time… I… my…” his face scrunches up, “ _Coworker_. My coworker was about to… Things were about to escalate.”

Martin remembers Jon shouting pointedly not at the ocean as a whole but at a specific spot near the shore and a chill runs through him.

“ _Your coworker was in the water?_ We need to go back, what if he’d drowned-”

“We don’t,” Jon grabs his hands and pulls Martin back down, hissing as the cuts stretch and pull, “We don’t. He’s… a good swimmer. Professional. We were feuding and I opted to… climb out of the water. Less chance he’d follow me.”

Marin imagines two coworkers swimming along the shore in like five-degree water wearing only shorts and a tshirt. And then starting to fight… He supposes people who live in vague seaside isolation have their shticks.

“If… If you say so.” He reaches for the bandages, mulling over the implications. In a way it makes sense for Jon to have started throwing rocks if there really was someone in the water… Maybe they’re casual divers and are the ones consistently fucking up Peter’s nets. He says the nets have been getting cut with knives deep down and he blames the neighboring fishermen of being jealous.

He starts wrapping Jon’s hand, holding it gently in his. “Well, if you ever need help you know where I live now. I’m here for another month for sure so… I guess it’s an open tea and dinner invitation.”

“Tea, dinner, and medical help.”

“Well, I _hope_ we can go without that but…” Martin smiles, “I’ll help when I can.”

He glances up at Jon only to catch one of the softest smiles on him, a bit surprised and conflicted but soft. His hair’s finally drying and he looks malleable in the rolled-up sweats Martin found him, drowning in a thick woolen sweater.

Martin looks back down and finishes wrapping the first hand. Jon hands him the second, “You’re so very kind, Mah-tin.” He says it kind of funny but it’s so damningly endearing Martin can’t help but grin back.

“And you’re a good guy, Jon, I’m happy to make your rocky experience with the local terrain a bit less traumatic.”

This of all things makes Jon sigh, deep, and with a weird sound- it makes Martin momentarily worry there’s still water in his lungs. He’ll ask again about the hospital thing later. It’d really be sound if they could go.

“You’re… fast to make such high praise…” Jon rotates his hand to aid Martin in wrapping it, “I… must confess something.”

_Oh here comes the murderer angle I guess_ , Martin has time to think because Jon speaks again.

“Mahtin. I’m a fish.”

_Oh thank god he didn’t say serial killer._

“Oh, like Pisces?” Martin looks up briefly before continuing to wrap the hand, “No worries, they’re not the worst star sign to hate.”

Jon is quiet for a moment, “No, like. Mahtin, _I’m fish. I am fish, look,”_ Jon urges and when Martin glances up at him, Jon’s eyes flick over with a second opaque eyelid. Once it retracts, Martin faintly realizes it’s what had confused him about Jon’s eyes earlier: you can see the edge of the second eyelid peaking out of the side.

Um.

He knows he’s staring, jaw almost lax and brain function at a halt. He almost drops the roll of gauze but the horror of watching it land and then traitorously roll away snaps him out of the trance.

“I… Okay.”

Because honestly, this is better than Peter’s criminally endless tails of cursed giant sea squid and other heavily unnecessary oceanic fables. This is, really, just a polite… fish-person?

“Wait so,” Martin finishes wrapping the hand and looks up at Jon who instantly looks startled, “Sorry if this is like rude to ask, but do you just turn into a fish when you go swimming or… is it a merfolk type of deal?”

“Sorry?” Jon is looking utterly perplexed, greatly so at the casual approach to what his kind has probably caught a whole deal of hate for, Martin guesses.

“Like, are you just a fish or half-fish or… something else?” He throws his hands up to placate the other just in case, “Again, if it’s something sensitive or inappropriate to ask, tell me to lay off.”

“I.. um. Half-fish. When we turn fully human we also appear in clothes but… it doesn’t exclude the possibility you’re still in water.”

“So your coworker was also like you, right?” Martin chuckles all of a sudden, mildly freaking out at how lightly his brain is taking this side-ways blinking man, “Or was he legitimately just a fully legged guy who was swimming in freezing water with you?”

Jon stares at him with so much genuine confusion that it’s almost funny. The question takes a good few seconds to register, but when it does, Jon unexpectedly chortles, equally caught off guard by laughter.

This only spurs on Martin and the guy’s laugh is contagious as all hells and they sit there in front of the fireplace with medical gauze strewn all around and laugh their heads off for no reason other than the severely startling situation.

When they calm down Jon manages to confirm his ‘coworker’ was indeed also fish and not just a guy in the water in shorts. They barely avert another fit of rolling laughter and Martin wipes his eyes, standing and offering Jon help.

“Okay, okay, okay,” he tries to reason them both out of more snickering, “I’ll make more tea, is that alright with you? How you feeling, warmer?”

Jon follows him into the kitchen, grinning from ear to ear, “Warmer.”

**Author's Note:**

> if you're curious who jon was throwing stones at, it was elias.
> 
> [there's art of this on tumblr!](https://22ratonthestreet.tumblr.com/post/627540697499779072/fireplace-beebro-the-magnus-archives)


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